


A Symphony of Our Hearts

by Seon



Series: Obsession [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Agender Chara, Agender Frisk, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Frisk is a puzzlemaster, Mages, Magic is Real, NONONONONONO, Reader is the narrator, Sharing a Body, Something seems wrong, Spoilers - Undertale Pacifist Route, Unreliable Narrator, Why is he still here?, admittedly a charisk sinner, mages are persecuted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seon/pseuds/Seon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frisk has always been hearing a voice in their head--even before they fell into underground.</p><p>Main Story of Obsessions, following Frisk's life in the surface and their journey through the underground. </p><p>Magic is real, and those with the talent have been persecuted for centuries now. Frisk, born with red eyes-indicator of a strong talent, is no exception. It is just a good thing that you have always been around to give them advice, is it not? </p><p>Story is told from the point of view of the voice in Frisk's head. Obsession's side stories are not necessary to read this fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hearing voices is not normal

Jack was the only parent you have ever known.

He was a bartender with a jolly laugh and a warm smile, who looked not a day over thirty. He had brown hair and piercing brown eyes that seemed to glow in the dark sometimes (you always suspected that magic was somehow involved in the phenomenon)

You never knew your birth parents or the relatives that took you in afterwards. You were too young, after all. Jack explained to you, long ago, that an arsonist killed your parents. The uncle and aunt that took you in afterwards were killed in some kind of freak 16 car pile-up at an intersection (authorities at the time, Jack told them, blamed it on magic—as they were prone to doing in those old, unenlightened times. Mage rights have advanced quite a lot since then. You mentioned how it was literally 10 years ago and he laughed morbidly). Jack told you that he was a good friend of your birth parents, and that he signed the adoption forms as soon as he realized that you had nobody to be with.

You had no reason to doubt these claims, although you did wonder how a simple bartender in Michigan, Ebottstown, was able to afford the specious and modern looking house that you two now lived in.

I always suspected that he was secretly some kind of a drug lord or a leader of a mage cabal, who used the bar as a place to launder their illegally gotten funds.

You think that’s stupid.

You think that I’m stupid.

You think that he probably had a good inheritance or good investments into other businesses that supplemented the funds he received from running the bar. I have no objection to this theory, but also point out that this doesn’t preclude the theory that he’s a crime lord of some kind. I also point out how you are now attempting to convince the voice in your head—something that logically must be part of you as the color of your eyes—that it is stupid. Is that not, I argue, the same thing as arguing that you are stupid? You decide to ignore my last remarks. Shut up, I said you did, so you did, okay?

Back to business. He was, I say eloquently (you hastily point out that normal people don’t describe their own words as being eloquent. Shut up, Frisk, let the voice in your head speak in peace), after all, an enigma. Aside from his rather strange dress sense (he always dressed so formally—all 1950s style suits and fedoras), there was the fact that he tended to disappear for days at a time, leaving behind mysterious caretakers.

You point out that Jack really didn’t act like how you imagined a crimelord would. He was always flirting with… everyone, actually. He was friendly and jovial. His house was filled with weird art and items that he claimed were from strange places around the world.

Okay, I take it back. He’s probably not a crime lord. He’s probably a spy, like James Bond. Or maybe a gentleman thief like Lupin. He fits the stereotype perfectly. He probably got that Faberge egg from a Russian oligarch’s house after he seduced his wife or something.

You laugh and point out that you couldn’t imagine Jack seducing anyone. That was brutal. If soulless disembodied voice in a teenager’s head could cry, I would be shedding them for Jack, Frisk. Look what you’ve done.

You smile happily, and lean on your chair a bit more. It’s a nice day outside, but you have not taken a single step outside. Jack is gone, away on another one of his ‘business trips’ (as if bartenders had any reason to take business trips), and you are alone. Your caretaker is not scheduled to arrive for another hour and you are feeling lonely.

You protest, but I am inside your head. I can feel what you feel. You feel lonely. You wish Jack wouldn’t leave you alone so much. You wish other children stopped looking at you and call you a monster and a freak for your eye colors: red, like blood, the telltale sign of a strong magical potential.

You insist that you are happy. You insist that Jack’s love and my company is the only thing you ever needed. Frisk…

I can’t be your only friend.

It’s not healthy for you.

I’m just a voice. I can’t be a real friend, Frisk. I can’t tuck you into bed at night. I can’t read you bedtime stories from the side. We can’t play tag together or make pie and spaghetti together or hang out together. All these things are denied from me, and as long as I remain your only friend and Jack remains stubbornly absent from your life, it will be denied from you too.

You insist that I’m a real friend. I do the equivalent of a ghostly sigh.

I know exactly how stubborn you can be, Frisk.

Doorbell signaling the arrival of your caretaker shakes you out of your thoughts. You run to the door to let her in—a barista named Sam (she never told you her last name). She has blond hair tied neatly into a bun behind her. When you meet her at work, she always has an empty, soulless smile shared by all food industry workers.

You think it’s impolite to call her smile as being empty and soulless, but I think it’s true. Besides, I’m just your imaginary friend, Frisk. She can’t hear me and be offended anyways.

I’m actually not sure if Sam is capable of being offended. When you meet her privately—such as when Jack invites her over during weekends or when she is your assigned caretaker, she never shows any hint of emotion. Almost comically so, actually. She maintained that completely deadpan and neutral expression when she agreed to help you set up some… traps… to prank Jack a few months ago. When Jack triggered that tripwire and was pelted by at least a dozen Nerf darts to the face and you rose out of your hiding place in jubilant victory, she even threw some confetti (I still have no idea why she carried those around) into the air above Jack while maintaining the exact same emotionless exterior.

You think that she actually has emotions, just have trouble expressing them most of the time. I think you may be right.

You flash a wide smile towards her and bid her inside. She does it without comment, hanging up her coat on the rack by the door. You ask her if she brought you anything interesting and she nods. She pulls out from her purse some scrap electronics and parts that she found at the junkyard and you let out a little squeal of delight.

Nerd.

What? I said nothing. Let’s change the subject while you drool all over these new fun ‘toys.’

Sam was probably the closest thing you had for a mother. Jack and Sam were friends as far as you could remember, and she was the one who visited most often to take care of you. Jack and Sam trusted each other very much—this was apparent, and they both loved you. Why else would she take care of you for free like this?

They are both so nice people. The life you are leading isn’t ideal, but you feel wanted and loved. By at least two people (again, I don’t count). It is a good life. I guess.

What, no I’m not jealous. You think you should tell Jack or Sam about me. I think that idea is the quickest way to get sent to the insane asylum, witch hunters, or exorcists for an immediate containment.

You point out that Jack accepted you easily when you finally revealed your real gender a few months ago—that you did not subscribe to binary gender quality. That you had read an article online about being agender, and believed that it described you rather well. You asked him not to call you his little girl anymore.

I remember, Frisk.

I remember how he was confused for days, not sure how he should deal with you. You cried, believing you messed it up. You messed up the happy life that you had with Jack and now things were weird. I tried to comfort you as much as possible, but I didn’t have hands. I couldn’t stroke your back or pet your head or do anything. I felt helpless.

But then he came around, shocking you and me both. He apologized for how weirdly he was acting, and told you that he will try to understand and be careful in the future. So far, he has kept his promise very well. He no longer calls you a little girl anymore. He corrects people in the street when they call you a girl. He no longer boasts about the little genius girl that he raise, but boasts about the little genius kid.

Unfortunately, I am not you, Frisk. Being agender is completely natural part of human existence. I would argue that hearing voices is certainly not, and is definitely something that would normally be concerning (I have no intention of harming you Frisk, but Jack or your 'auntie' may not believe that to be the case. I would hate it if you got institutionalized because of me, Frisk). 

By the time I’ve done organizing our thoughts on Jack and Sam together, I realize that you are sitting before your workbench and is doing… something to the scrap parts. No, I’m not gonna describe what you are doing, it’s beyond my ability to understand. I know you tried to explain to me before, but I didn’t understand a single word of what you said. You roll your eyes.

You think that, for a voice in your head, that I don’t share a lot of your interests or abilities or even ability to remember all those instruction manuals and tips and guides you downloaded over the Internet. Actually, I don’t think anybody can understand them as fast as you did, Frisk. You basically just absorbed the information by reading them once. That’s not normal, Frisk. Normal teenagers play video games and sports or do arts and crafts. They generally don’t go around building robots, traps, and puzzles inside their home.

Okay, admittedly building robots, traps, and puzzles is awesome, but I still feel as if having more contact with humans other than Jack, Sam, and a few other kind souls would be better. Anyways, let me ask again. What are you doing right now?

“I’m building a robot,” you speak out loud for my benefit. Thought to thought communication was usually sufficient, but your thought tended to get very… disorganized and rapid fire when you were thinking of machines, puzzles, and riddles. “Sam found me some motors and gears I needed to help make it move.”

Cool. What will it do?

“It will shoot Jack in the face with a water gun.”

I approve. I approve very much. It’ll teach that damned smug snake not to leave you alone for too long, after all.

I watch you for a while.

Do you think Jack is a mage, by the way? I ask suddenly.

“What a sudden question,” you answer out loud, frowning.

“Who are you talking to?” Sam asks. We whirl around to see her standing in the doorway to our room, holding a plate of reheated porkchops on rice. How long has she been standing there?

“How long have you been standing there?” you stammer out. Frisk! Calm down, there’s no way we wouldn’t have heard. Sam continues standing at the doorway, expressive as a corpse. “I just arrived,” Sam said slowly. “With some food,” she lifted the plate of pork and gave it a wiggle. “Who were you talking to?” She repeats the question.

Just tell her that you were talking to yourself, I say.

“I just thought of something weird and was talking to myself,” you say. Good job, Frisk. Sam appears to buy the explanation, and nods to herself. She strides over to place the plate of pork next to your work bench. “Remember to eat this time,” she says as she turns to leave. Her eyes catch on something in the room and she freezes in the spot.

You trace her glare to an innocuous pair of ballet shoes lying on your bed. “So,” she says. "I suppose you have taken dancing." There’s a barest hint of annoyance in her usually deadpan voice.

“Jack got me those,” you explain. “He says that it helps with learning balance and movement. It’s the best thing since I can’t,” you chuckle as you point at your eyes. “Legally defend myself if something happens to me.”

“Of course he did. He would say something like that,” Sam says slowly. “Dancing, as an alternative to martial arts. How ridiculous.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, I just knew somebody who used to dance a lot.”

“Oh?” You rarely hear about Sam’s private life. Hell, you never even knew her last name (you half-suspected that she didn’t have one). “Who was she? Your sister? A friend?”

She gives you a faint smile. “She loved the ballet and loved to dance,” she said. “When she wore those shoes, she felt invincible, as if she could simply hop and twirl her problems away. She doesn’t wear the shoes anymore.”

“Why? What happened to her?” you ask.

“She climbed the damnable mountain and lost her soul deep underneath,” Sam says bluntly. Her faint smile vanishes from her face, returning to a neutral expression. “Bring me the plate when you are done,” she says as she leaves.


	2. Strange friends

I dislike your “auntie.” Jack truly keeps around strange friends. Sam is okay, I think, but your “auntie?” I fail to see why they are even friends. You can cut the tension between them with a knife, and it’s not the sexual kind. Don’t laugh. You know how Jack’s smile stretches thin to its breaking point whenever he’s around that “auntie” of yours. 

I only speak the truth, Frisk, I do not want to lie to you. I dislike that hateful, maniacal, and racist woman. I do not particularly care if she has been nothing but kind to you, Frisk. I bet if she wasn’t Jack’s personal friend before he adopted you, that she would have been the first in the line to demand that you be burnt at the stakes just for having your eye col-

I’m sorry. I was out of line. It will not happen again, I assure you. 

I only give you advice, Frisk. My advice is to not trust that old witch hunter. You mention that she’s coming for dinner tomorrow.

Yeah, why do you think I’m reminding you to not trust your “auntie?” You roll your eyes (please stop doing that it makes me dizzy) and focus your attention back on your project for the day.

Admittedly, I lied somewhat about not understanding a word of what you did. It’s just… rather difficult to explain in words. The way you see the world is… so different from normal, you understand? When I see through your eyes, I can barely make out your thought processes and the visions you receive. When you check an item or think about a problem, the details and solutions come unbidden, floating around for you to see. Where normal people see electronic scraps and garbage, your ability allows you to see them as what they could be. It’s as if… as if the CODE of the world is revealed to you through your eyes. 

If I am jealous of anything, Frisk, I’m jealous of that: your ability to see the world through their CODE. I wish I had this power. I wish I had this power when I—nothing. I said nothing.

 

It works on humans too, of course. It doesn’t work as well as it does on inanimate objects, but even humans are ultimately bound by strings of numbers and words that describe them. It works on everyone you know, with some exceptions.

One such exception is Sam. You are reminded of this when you go to give her the plate after your meal. She’s sitting along in the living room, a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She nods at you as you place the plate inside the sink and return to her tablet. You CHECK her again, just in case it gives you something new. 

Sam *^&*%*)  
LV: *%&*(#)  
HP: ???  
ATK: ???  
DEF: ???  
*^*()#()@_!#%

Jack truly keeps weird friends. 

Honestly, you have no idea what any of those words mean anyways. LV, HP, ATK, and DEF. It just seems like a video game. If you squint harder, you can begin to see how the organs and the cells work together in a human body, along with potential weak points, but that always disturbed you somewhat so you don’t. 

I don’t think it’ll work on Sam anyways. She’s a bit… too weird. I again put forward the idea that Jack is a mage and Sam is part of his cabal, and that she’s using her magic to defend herself from casual attempts to CHECK her. If that is true, you assert. How does it work on Jack?

I dunnow, Frisk. I was never really into this whole magic business. You agree. Puzzles and traps are much cooler, you say.

Says the person who has a preternatural, magical, talent with machines.

What, I said nothing. Come on, we have to build more traps for Jack. 

……………………………………………………………………………….  
Tomorrow Evening.

Your adoptive father doesn’t return to the house despite the fact that he was the one who was supposed to be hosting this gathering. His friend, Sam, is in the porch, reading something from her tablet as you play some handheld nearby. She’s wearing some silly hat that she apparently stole from your adoptive father’s wardrobe. Some people walk by on the sidewalk, staring nervously at you as if you may explode at any moment. You don’t exactly blame them. That is, after all, what the witch hunters have always said about red eyed children. Yes, Frisk. Witch Hunters. Like your “auntie.” 

Speaking of the devil, a limo pulls up to the house and your “auntie” steps out lightly from it. A red haired woman with light blue eyes, sharp glasses and business-like attire. A witch hunter. Maniac. Dr. Jillian Roosevelt. 

“Frisk!” She says cheerfully as the limo speeds off. You give her a friendly wave. She’s been on TV often, defending her organization’s practice of extrajudicial killings years ago. Sure, the government was in disarray and people were confused and fearful, but this doesn’t give them…. This doesn’t give HER the right to prey upon these fears to incite hatred and…. And…. I should stop. 

She’s one of the few people who are kind to you, although I still can’t understand why she does. She laughs as she picks you up (surprisingly strong for her size and age. You express minor annoyance at the ‘age’ comment) and twirls you around. 

“Come on,” she says, putting you down and motioning Sam to follow. Sam obediently shuts off her Tablet and stands from the garden chair. “Let’s go have a dinner party. It’s been such a long while since all of us got together and talked! Where’s Jack, by the way?” 

“Never returned,” Sam says simply. “Have been taking care of the child since yesterday,” she continues. Dr. Roosevelt frowns. “Fuck that guy,” she declares. “He’s always so irresponsible,” she turns to you as she says that. You feel a little bit uncomfortable—you do feel some measure of loyalty towards Jack after all. But you can’t disagree with Dr. Roosevelt either. “Let’s just get inside. I’m stealing his liquor,” she says.

“They are in the basement,” Sam deadpans as she fishes for a key. 

…………………………………………………………………………………

Sam disappears into the kitchen to prepare something for the dinner while Dr. Roosevelt sneaks into the basement to steal herself one of Jack’s liquor. 

You take the opportunity while Sam is distracted and Jack is gone to ask Dr. Roosevelt about the Mountain. Jack always changed topics whenever it mentioned and Sam just stared at you wordlessly. You suspect that drunk Dr. Roosevelt may be more receptive to questions.

“Hmm? The Mountain? Hasn’t Jack told you about it?” she says, pouring herself a glass of whiskey in the basement and setting up a nice role model for you to follow. Don’t make that face, she may notice something’s wrong. 

“Jack never tells me anything remotely magical,” you respond. “Good, good,” Dr. Roosevelt nods sagely. “Magic is nasty business. No reason for children to get into it. People drill those historical stuff into your head in highschool enough already, I say, Hah!” She chuckles. “But eh, the mountain is local legend. I don’t see why you shouldn’t know about it,” she takes a gulp of whiskey.

You take a seat and begin listening to her. “Long time ago,” Dr. Roosevelt says. “When mages still ruled the world, there were many more sentient species that inhabited this earth than humans. Monsters, we call them now,” she says. “Despite the fact that monsters were made of magic—they breathed and lived it. They were dependent on it to survive—they were much weaker than humans. One ordinary human would be enough to kill dozens of monsters if he so wished. However, the mages still feared the monsters.” 

“Why did they fear the monsters?” you ask, curious. “If mages were so powerful, and monsters so weak, then surely they would’ve realized that monsters were no threat?” 

“Those with power,” Dr. Roosevelt says. “Always fear the alliance of those who do not have power. Monsters alone posed little threat to the mages, but humans and monsters together?” Dr. Roosevelt mused. “A significant threat to the status quo.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Monsters have the ability to absorb human souls to use as a power source of some kind,” Dr. Roosevelt says. “And they naturally know how to control magic with finesse far greater than a human mage is generally capable of. One monster with one human soul would be far stronger and skilled then most singular human mage.”

“Thus the mages incited hatred and fear among the ordinary people, painting monsters as soul stealing thieves who wanted to shackle humanity and harvest their souls. This ultimately led to a great war between the two species. Humans and mages were victorious, and the surviving monsters were trapped beneath the Mount Ebott,” Dr. Roosevelt continues. “I suppose even the mages were struck by guilt at the end—even they could not fathom the consequence of a destruction of an entire species. I suppose the great prison of Mount Ebott is, in some way, an act of mercy for the defeated monsters.” 

You frown as you think about her words. “What were the monsters like?” you ask. She smiles faintly. “They were people, just like you and me. Neither particularly good or evil,” she says. 

I have to give her some props. This isn’t what I expected of her. You think about her words for a moment. “How long ago was this?” You ask.

“Centuries ago. Millennia, maybe,” she responds. “Exact date doesn’t matter.”

“Why? Also, if it was nearly a millennia ago when it happened, wouldn’t that mean that it was the Native Americans who trapped the monsters?”

“Yes and no,” Dr. Roosevelt says, waving her hand half-heartedly. “Mount Ebott has always been strange. It’s, in fact, more of an idea than a real place. Multiple Mount Ebotts exist all over the world, all having the same legend. Seven archmages trapping the race of monsters under the mountain in a fit of arrogance. I guess the best description for it is… it was different group of archmages, living in different places and time, all trapping the same race of monsters inside the same mountain that is also different, over and over again until everybody everywhere had done it,” she finishes.

When she notices the look of abject confusion in your face, she shrugs. “Don’t worry about it kid, it’s magic,” she says.

You laugh at that and agree that magic is really weird. Dr. Roosevelt chuckles and returns to drinking more liquor. You take the opportunity to CHECK her.

Jillian Roosevelt  
LV: 19  
HP: 1111/1111  
ATK: 500  
DEF: 300  
*Has been pati-

Dr. Roosevelt suddenly shoves a palm into our eyes, surprising us both. You utter a yelp (I scream inside your head) as you fall over backwards from the force of the palm-strike. You begin quivering as you feel the witch hunter lean down over you, pinning you to the ground. You feel her breath as her mouth edges closer to your ears.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare at people, kid?” she whispers. You close your eyes underneath her hand. You keep them closed even when she withdraws her hand and you hear her footsteps leaving the room. “Please,” Dr. Roosevelt’s voice calls over from the direction of the threshold. “Don’t try that again on me.” 

She shuts the door to the basement as she heads upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC: My first published work! Sort of. 
> 
> Uhh, if you don't mind, I would love some feedback >.


	3. [REDACTED]

She couldn’t have known. I attempt to reassure you throughout the evening. Both you and Dr. Roosevelt appears to be pretending as if nothing has happened. She doesn’t know about your abilities, I tell you. She would be much more harsh with you if she actually suspected something magical happened. That was just because she drank some liquor.

Dr. Roosevelt makes a joke that you do not hear, and Sam responds by chewing on a Brussels sprout. Dr. Roosevelt’s face falls as she goes to picking at her own salad, complaining that it wasn’t as fun messing with Sam as it was with Jack. She looks far too happy for somebody who just threatened a 16 year old. 

It’s unnerving. 

But you are thinking of something else.

You only know two people whose LV was higher than 1 when you checked. You wonder what LV stands for. It’s not like, you subvocalize towards me. A video game in which you gain LV by gaining EXP or something, right? 

Right, I reply. Your mind sends me an emotion best described as incredulous wonder. Do you know what LV means? You subvocalize towards me. 

Of course I do. It means… 

It means… ~~and for an instance I am wrecked with doubt and guilt~~

It means LOVE, Frisk. It means they love you a lot, I say.

 ~~I guess sometimes a lie is less painful than the truth~~.

You are satisfied with this explanation. After all, only people who were kind to you ever had a LV higher than 1. You briefly wonder what your LV is. It’s too bad that you can’t CHECK yourself. You hope that it’s a high number. You want them to know that you LOVE them just as much as they LOVE you. 

Your adoptive father never returns for the dinner party. Dr. Roosevelt looks disappointed as she gets on the limo, drunk, humming a tune vaguely reminiscent of a 1920s swing music. You and Sam both wave her goodbye as the witch hunter’s driver speeds off into the night. 

At this point, you are getting quite worried. It’s not like Jack to break a promise, especially when it comes to meeting friends. We feel a pat on our head and look up to see Sam caressing your hair with a half-hearted smile on her face. “Don’t worry about Jack,” she says. She doesn’t elaborate on why we shouldn’t be worrying about Jack. She just gives you a blank stare before walking back into the house. 

I still have no idea what goes through the woman’s head. Actually, I have no idea what goes through both Sam and Jack’s head. They work normal jobs—a bartender and a barista. But they are obviously somebody so much more. They are friends with a goddamn witch hunter, for god’s sake. You are still wondering about the last bit—specifically about how Dr. Roosevelt just struck out at you without warning for giving her the ‘evil eye.’ You wonder how they came to know each other. 

Maybe you should just ask Sam if you are curious, Frisk.

…

You are actually going to ask Sam, aren’t you?

When you reenter the house, Sam’s sitting by the fireplace, reading something from her tablet. You approach her cautiously. 

She doesn’t react at all. I think you have to initiate the conversation, pal. You cough your throat, and she still doesn’t respond, so you decide to start with a perfect conversation starter.

“What are you reading?” you ask. Really? That’s the best you can do? Sam’s eye glance at you for the barest moment. 

“I’m reading about snails,” Sam says.

“Snails.”

“Yes.”

What a meaningful conversation.

“Do… do you like snails?” You say, desperate to continue the conversation. 

“No, I hate them,” Sam replies. “But I used to not know somebody who loved snails.” 

That doesn’t make sense. That doesn’t make senses at all. “What do you mean by not know them?”

“It means I didn’t know them,” Sam says, not looking up from the tablet. “And they didn’t know me. If you read about, say, how a politician on the other side of the globe likes to drink mocha, do you really know them? It’s the same thing here,” Sam continues. “I know a person who likes snails, but I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me.” 

Fire crackles in the background. “Do you want to know her?” you ask. 

“No,” Sam says. “I don’t want to.” Her words have a tone of finality to them. “I wish I could forget about her already,” Sam continues after a few moment of silence. “I wish Jack and Jill could forget about her already.” 

There’s another moment of silence. Sam continues flipping through an electronic book about snails. “Sometimes,” she says, unbidden. This is surprisingly verbose of her. “I am struck by moments of… nostalgia. Yes, nostalgia. Nostalgia for feelings towards people I only met in a dream. Nostalgia eats away at Jack and Jillian harder than it does for me. They long to return to a mythical past that no longer exists for them.” 

She flips another page in the ebook. “I wish they would stop dragging you into it as well.”

Ask her what she means by that.

No, this is important, Frisk. You need to know what they are dragging you into.

“What are they dragging me into?” you ask with much hesitation. 

“You will know soon enough,” Sam says ominously. “Well, you will, as soon as Jack awakens from one of his fey moods. If you will excuse me, I must continue not learning about snails.” 

She returns to being enraptured by snails. I suppose that’s all we will get out of her for tonight. I can’t get over how she mentioned that Jack and Dr. Roosevelt is trying to drag you into something. I can’t help but feel that it will somehow be detrimental to your health. Our health. We share this body, you know. I’m quite fond of it. Tomorrow, we’ll probably be able to find some hints as to what will come in the house somewhere… or I guess you could grill Sam some more if she’s still feeling nostalgic and verbose. For now, we should go to bed and dream. 

You say goodnight to Sam and ascend the stairs to your room. 

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Dreams are funny constructs, are they not? You and I together have far more control over them than is normally expected. At least, I’m pretty certain normal people don’t lucid dream every night, Frisk. You and I, we always enjoyed our times in the dreamlands. We, together, are all powerful here. Only thing you can’t do, no matter how much you try, is give me a form and a face. 

Don’t apologize. I take pride in that you can’t, actually. I’ve been blocking your attempts ever since you were born. You are frowning at me now, but I have to remind you that when you were, like five? You tried to call me Bugsy and give me the form of some godforsaken Teddy Bear that you always carried. Every night was a battle Frisk. I feel as if I’ve earned the right to be a disembodied voice and a will inside your head. 

But back to business. Your ability to absorb and load information, unfortunately, only appears to work with factual information or statistics or other data. It doesn’t seem to work as much on memories. Good thing is that your brain never truly forgets what you’ve seen, even if you didn’t understand the implications at the time. So, all we have to do is look through… 16 years worth of memories… to see if we can dig up some conspiracy against our persons.

That’s a lot of memories.

So, uh, how do you want to go about doing this?

…

Is that a computer? You summoned a computer inside your dream?

What’s wrong with a computer? You spend enough time in front of a computer already while awake, Frisk. Do we really have to be in front of a computer in the dreams too?

Fine, could you at least make it a cool looking computer? You know, like from an anime, with really stupidly large screen? Maybe with a holographic interface or something? Don’t roll your eyes at me, young person, they say that some measure of theatricality is important in this kind of business. 

Anyways you are now sitting in some room reminiscent of some command and control facility out of a James Bond movie. You mesh the keys randomly on a holographic interface (because it really doesn’t matter what you are meshing in a dream), mostly for my benefit. Thank you, Frisk.

Countless images flash in the screens--all memories that we have experienced. There’s too many of them. We won’t ever find what we need at this rate. I ask if you could sort for memories exclusive of Jack. Easy enough.

You pause over a memory of a forest. A forest? I don’t think forests are really that interesting, Frisk. Maybe we should move on. You disagree. You are pretty certain that this is the Mountain. 

We never went to the Mountain before in our lives.

Yet here we are. An eight year old child… you years ago… climbing the mountain by yourself at night…

No, there’s something wrong with this memory. It’s as if… as if… somebody had taken a knife to it and carved it out of our head. There’s bits and chunks missing. It’s not continuous. The walls are wrong. This is all wrong. We trip, and Jack scolds us for being too careless.

Jack?

More details fit into place. We aren’t climbing the mountain by ourselves. Jack’s leading us towards the mountain, away from the traveled path into a wilderness. He’s got a knife in one hand and is dragging you forward roughly with the other. I can hear myself screaming inside your head to not trust him, but you wouldn’t listen. 

Memories scramble with each other, and soon we find ourselves inside a cave, our feet dangling over a bottomless pit. You are wearing a blue and purple striped sweater and is staring at Jack, who’s holding you over this precipice to hell. He’s not smiling.

But you are smiling. You are smiling because you trust him, despite every evidence saying you shouldn't do so. I’ve gone silent in fear inside your head, but you aren’t afraid because you are sure that he would never drop you.

But then he does.

No, that’s not what happened. Memories scream and strain against each other. Something is wrong. This is not what happened. This isn’t how things are meant to be. We scream together as we fall down. But we weren’t dropped. We tripped on a vine. No, we leapt in on our own accord. No, we were being pursued. No, we… we…

Jack doesn’t drop us that day. 

He puts you aside with a nervous chuckle before throwing the knife away into the pit. We never hear it hit the bottom. “I think,” he says after a while. “That caves are a little bit too dangerous for children. I think it would be best if you…” his brown eyes glint blue for a slightest moment. “Forget that this all happened.”

And we do. 

…

I think.

I think we should look at some other, happier, memories. In fact, I think you should stop for tonight. You need rest. A real rest. 

Go and play on your own in the dreamland. I hear the land of the cats are pretty interesting this time of the dreamscape. I’ll do some digging among our memories. 

Trust me, I won’t lie to you. 

Goodnight, Frisk. 

…….

Another memory from years ago.

Jack is sitting in the armchair at the living room, cradling a cup of hot chocolate you made for him.

…

Haha, look at me. I can’t stop referring you as you even when you aren’t listening. A force of habit. It helps organize my own thought.

He asks a question. I remember because it was so sudden. “Do you think,” he asks. “That even the worst person can change if they try hard enough?” 

You replied: “Of course!” with a wide grin on your face. “I mean, I don’t steal candy from the pantry anymore,” you say adorably. I remember that. Jack laughs at that. You don’t recognize it, but it’s a pained laughter.

“You may be right about that,” he says after a while. You are laughing too, but I am not. I am too busy looking at his STAT.

Jack Loveless  
LV: 19  
ATK: 900  
DEF: 100  
HP: 300  
*He couldn’t stop laughing.

When he stops laughing, he has a haunted look on his face once more. “Have you ever felt,” he says. “As if your life is beyond your control? As if there’s something manipulating our actions? Our perception of reality? All leading towards some unfathomable goal? That things aren’t naturally supposed to be this way? That nothing we do in our lives actually matter?”

You are eight years old and you have no idea what he means. You shake your head. He chuckles. “I feel like that all the time," he says. "But maybe I have been using that as an excuse for doing terrible things for too long," he finishes. 

I think I know what you mean, Jack, surprisingly enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This end note has been redacted.


	4. To Finish the Job

You know Frisk, I used to have my own flesh and blood before we came to this… arrangement we have inside your head. 

I mean, you have to have wondered how I know things that you don’t, and how I was always… much more mentally mature than you. Oh believe me. First four years of your life was the WORST for me. Imagine waking up one day with no control over your arms and legs, and having nobody to talk to and interact with but a baby who can’t even speak. It was a mind numbing experience—oh no, don’t apologize. I much prefer this to some inane concept of hell or heaven. At least I can continue watching over the living in this state.

Hmm? How did I die? Well, that’s a funny story. I can’t remember.

Sorry, memories of my life is a bit… fuzzy. Death apparently scrambles one’s mind. I do remember, however, that I was doing something… important when I bit the dust, so to speak. 

Did I complete whatever I was doing before I died? I don’t actually remember. Hell, I don’t even remember what I was doing. Maybe I didn’t complete it. Maybe that’s why I’m still here—to finish the job. 

Why am I mentioning this all of a sudden?

Heh.

Do you remember what Sam said yesterday about nostalgia? I guess I have the same thing too. You see, sometimes, I get these flashes of memories of my life before I came to rest in your head. They hit me like a wall. Faces and voices that I don’t recognize, helping me, cheering me onward, joking to me, threatening me, torturing me, screaming and yelling at me, killing me and… and…

I feel nothing.

That is weird, isn’t it? I feel as if I should cry, or laugh along with the more happier memories that comes. But I don’t. It feels just like… reading a story that features me. Like, as Sam said, I’m just reading about a life and hobbies of a person who I don’t recognize. 

But I am rambling. Sorry, I guess what Sam said just resonated with me for a bit. I just had to get it off my metaphorical chest. Do not feel sorry for me. I can no longer find myself identifying with my life before my death. 

There is no reason to burden ourselves with memories of a person that no longer exist. 

What was I like before I died? Hmm… A difficult question, considering how fuzzy everything is. 

Nicer, I think, than I am with you. I didn’t have many friends, but the few I made were true and loyal. 

Don’t worry about them anymore. I am not the person I was when I died. They are no longer important to me except as a source of nostalgia. You and your life is now my sole priority. 

Therefore, I should redirect our focus for the agenda of the day. Unfortunately, my archaeological dig on our mutual memories does not appear to have borne much fruit aside from instances of Jack being a melancholic bastard that he really is. Don’t make that face, you know it’s true. 

You have to admit that there’s always some ‘forced’ quality to his smiles. But we are getting sidetracked again. We are investigating the secret conspiracy against our persons, and the first step in our adventure, I say, should be breaking into Jack’s office. 

Yes, yes, Jack said to never go in there, but that was before Sam said that he’s trying to drag us into something involving the damnable witch huntress. Get dressed quickly. Clues won’t find themselves, you know!

You are grumbling as you dress yourself for the day. A purple sweater that is sufficient to hide your curves. Baggy jeans that doesn’t do that as effectively. Your fashion sense, as always, is deplorable, but it’s not like we are going outside anyways. You stick out the tongue at yourself in the mirror, making you look like a complete fool, if I must say so myself. What, it’s true.

Now that you are dressed, it’s time to start the adventure. Onwards, my young warrior! 

Our adventure, unfortunately, halts right on the doorstep into our bedroom, because Sam is waiting for us at the hallway when we open the door (how long was she standing out there? Jesus). “Jack still has not returned.” Sam says as soon as our eyes meet.

“Did you stay the entire night here?” You ask. It’s a genuine question. I mean, I don’t think either of us heard the door open or any footsteps for that matter, and Sam was only supposed to stay here until she made sure we were asleep. Sam nods. “I was actually standing here since three in the morning,” she says. “It seemed rude to awaken or disturb you so early in the morning.”

…

Does she EVER sleep? 

Maybe that’s why she works as a barista. Easy access to coffee every day.

“In any case, since Jack isn’t here, I thought that we might go for a walk together.”

“What about school?”

“I called them ahead to tell them that you won’t be attending today.”

“You can do that?”

“The faculty in question was… a bit too glad when I informed him that you will not be attending school. Another evidence that Dr. Roosevelt’s work went too far, perhaps.”

Heh. Too far. You can say that again.

You know it’s true, Frisk. You never hurt a single soul. 

“You know,” Sam continues. “Jack will object if I do this, but I can also prevent you from going to school. Dr. Roosevelt has been interested in providing you with a much more advanced curriculum with privately arranged tutors. Jack has been resistant to the offer, but if I lend my voice to the doctor’s, he will have no choice but to accept.”

…

You are seriously considering this offer. This is a bad idea. It doesn’t matter what names they call you by at school. It doesn’t matter if you get constantly bullied. We have no idea what this ‘special curriculum’ entails. It may be brainwashing, for all we know, so that she has more ‘tame’ mages that she can use to sic at her enemies inside her organization. 

Besides, you need more contact then just Jack and Sam. I am certain that if you… we, keep trying, we can actually start making allies and friends in the school itself. We can actually lead a normal life, despite our eye color and weird adoptive parents. 

“Why would Jack object?” you ask her. She hesitates for a moment before answering us.

“It was always Jack’s personal desire that you ‘lead a normal life’ as much as possible,” she says. “It’s something he feels that he has personally been denied, and feels is denying you the same way by his mere presence. A ridiculous notion,” she says, staring straight into us. 

“A normal life was denied for you from the moment you started breathing in this world. Nothing Jack did ever changed that fact. The least he could do was acknowledge this fact and prepare you accordingly,” she scoffs. “But he was always a fool.” 

That’s… harsh. I have some words to say to her right now. In fact, a lot of words, but let’s calm down. There’s nothing to be gained from arguing with Sam. You agree. “I refuse the offer,” you say. 

Sam nods. “That is your choice. I respect choices,” she says. “But I feel as if you are making that choice in the vacuum, without any knowledge of the consequences or what it entails. That is the purpose of this walk, in fact.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the mountain. It always come down to the mountain,” Sam says. “Come, I will explain on the way,” she descends the stairs and you follow. “If we are going to the mountain, shouldn’t we be prepared?” You ask as you follow her. “Bug sprays, ropes, flashlight, maybe a bagged lunch?”

“It’ll only take half an hour or so.”

“The mountain is half of an hour’s worth of walk away.”

“I know a shortcut.” 

You raise an eyebrow at this comment. You open both your eyes wide when you follow Sam to the front door. Why? Oh wait, I think I can see it. I can’t see the CODE as thoroughly as you can, but I can borrow ideas and vision sometimes. There is something wrong with the front door. It looks normal—as it has always been, but the CODE of the world around it is broken. 

Is this magic?

“Take my hand,” Sam says. You do, and she leads you through the door. Darkness swallows you, and wind rushes by as you find yourself, suddenly, on top of the mountain.

“Fast shortcut, is it not?” an almost mechanical voice interrupts our panic. We, together, turn to face the voice and…

….

 

What the hell is that?!

How are you not scared by this? 

In front of us, holding our hand is a tall and towering figure in a gas mask and a black trench coat. I cannot see the CODE, but the world appears… wrong around the figure, like everything else is greyed out and the figure is the only thing in focus. The figure in the gasmask… it tilts its head as if eyeing a curious prey. “Are you not scared?” it asks.

“Why would I be scared of you, Sam?” you say, tilting your head to match the gasmask’s. 

“Heh, heh, heh,” the gasmasked figure says. “It is, admittedly, a cheap trick,” and then Gasmask reaches up to remove its… her mask and Sam emerges from the shell. “Blue magic does much more then oppress and stop physical movement,” she explains as she cradles the mask in her hand. You smile at her while I continue to track the mask through your peripheral vision. Despite the fact that it’s nothing but a mask, now removed from its actor, I can’t help but look upon it with the same reverence reserved for a blaze of forest fire. 

“Blue magic is also capable of forcing you to think and feel in a certain manner through its innate oppression. I’m glad, however,” she shoves the mask into one of the pockets in the trench coat, releasing me from the forced focus. “That you appear to be resistant of its effect.”

“I knew it wasn’t anything to be scared of,” you respond.

“How?” Sam asks.

…

Be careful with your response here, Frisk.

“I just did,” you say lamely. “Why are we on top of Mount Ebott?” you ask in a transparent attempt to change the topic of the conversation (you would be glaring internally at me, if not for the fact that doing so may give away my existence to Sam.

“There’s something that I have to show you to explain our motivations—and why we want you to follow in our footsteps,” Sam says. “Please, follow me,” she says as she lumbers off towards some kind of cave at the peak of the mountain. 

“Sooo,” you say as you chase after her. You have never noticed how tall she is before. “Are you a mage?”

“No,” she says simply.

Yeah, I’m not sure if I believe her either. By the way, you owe me something. I told you that Jack and Sam were mages, and that they were probably part of some cabal or something, and that looks like to be right! Okay, so I know I’m a ghost and I can’t actually bet anything, but it’s the, heh, spirit, of things, you know? 

But you aren’t paying attention to me anymore, because we are finally faced with what Sam wanted us to see. A shimmering, towering wall of light exists in the cave, through which nothing can be seen. You do not notice these surface details, however. You are looking much further then it is safe. You are looking into the CODE of this barrier, its history. How it was created. How it can be broken. Words of warnings from voices chanting in multiple different language telling of the horrors of war between two species. Tears stream out of your eye and you avert your gaze. It’s too much.

Sam roughly and suddenly grabs our head and forces us to watch the barrier. “You need to see,” Sam whispers. “We know all about your eyes and your abilities, Frisk. We have tried to nurture it as much as possible, so that you may aid us in analyzing it one day. Tell me Frisk. Is there. Any. Way. To break this barrier without the sacrifice of seven souls?” 

A long silence.

You shake your head. Calm down, Frisk. Your thoughts are a maze! I can’t keep track of things anymore!

Sam lets go of your head and walks towards the barrier, coming to rest her head against the wall of light. You fall to your knees and look away—to see anything other than the barrier. “It’s not just any seven souls,” you manage to stammer out. “You need… seven souls of incredible power.” 

Sam says nothing. Your mind continues to be a jumbled mess. "I... I don't understand. Why?"

“Why?” You ask Sam again. “Why do you want to break the barrier?”

Sam lets out a dark chuckle. “At this point, we just want to finish the job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had a lot of fun so far, didn't we?
> 
> Come on, partner. Let us finish the job.


	5. A briefing

You blacked out.

When you compose yourself and your thoughts on the barrier, you wake to find yourself suddenly inside Sam’s café. The noon sun shines brightly from the window. Looks like we were out for a few hours. 

“Greetings,” a familiar voice says. You groggily stare ahead to see two familiar figures sitting around the table with you. “Dr. Roosevelt?” you croak out. “Jack?” 

Jack averts his eyes when you make eye contact with him. Your heart threatens to break. Dr. Roosevelt doesn’t even flinch. Behind them, you can make out Sam cleaning the display cases of various pretty pastries that she has made. Other patrons are around the café, enjoying their own, but they do not seem to react to an obviously high profile persona such as Dr. Roosevelt hanging out in the countryside café with them.

“How much…” you manage to mutter out. “How much of it was a lie?”

“Did you ever care about me at all?”

“Or was it all part of the plan to use me for my abilities?” you accuse. Jack still doesn’t look at us in the eye. Dr. Roosevelt sighs and puts down her cup of coffee. “Sam?” Dr. Roosevelt calls over. 

“Yes doctor?” Sam calls over from the counter.

“Would you kindly slap Frisk for me? Hard?”

“As you wish.”

Sam’s upon us in less then a second as if she had always been there and not at the counter, her hand already wound back and ready to strike. You scream, but the other patron does not seem to notice. Sam’s hand moves down to strike you an-

“Stop,” Jack’s voice bellows. Sam’s hand stops mere inches from your face. You tremble as you look into Sam’s unfeeling, uncaring stare. “As you wish,” Sam says to Jack. Dr. Roosevelt scoffs. Jack glares at Dr. Roosevelt with a look of unrestrained fury. “That was too far,” he said. 

“They deserve it,” Dr. Roosevelt says, sipping her coffee again. “They have no right to doubt you. I’m fine with them hating me, but I will not tolerate any disloyalty from them towards you,” she says. 

“They are fourteen, for god’s sake. Sam, from hereon, ignore every orders from Dr. Roosevelt that will cause physical harm to Frisk.”

“As you wish.” 

Sam walks away from the table, leaving us shivering alone in front of the two people we once trusted implicitly. 

“Now,” Jack says, giving you a sad, but still friendly, smile. Dr. Roosevelt continues to stare at us with cold disdain in her eyes. “I’m sure you have many questions.” 

You hold your head with your hands. “I… I’m not sure where to start… Why do you want to break the barrier?” 

“A long story,” Jack says. “But ultimately, we wish simply to finish the job.”

“Finish the job, finish the job!” you howl. “What do you mean finish the job? What job?” 

“The only job that ever mattered to us, of course,” Dr. Roosevelt says, sipping her coffee again. “The destruction of the human race.”

We stare at her with open mouthed disbelief. 

“The weakness of humankind should be apparent to all with even the most basic grasp of history,” Dr. Roosevelt began.

“Anger, fury, hatred,” Jack continues. “Logic and reason, love and compassion gives away quickly in the human mind against such forces,” Jack continues.

“Trust us, it did not take much effort to turn the majority of the world’s people against mages despite the fact that humanity and mages have been existing in peace for centuries.”

“But… aren’t you two mages too?” you stammer out. I simply watch in growing disbelief. “Why turn the hunters against your own kind?” 

“I believe the consensus between the three of us,” Jack nods towards Sam. “Was that they… ahhh…. Deserved it,” he finishes. “They pretended to be the gods in charge of earth: cabals and archmages operating in the shadows in order to ‘guide’ humanity while waging wars to fulfill their own interests.”

“If humanity deserved to burn for their weakness, mages too deserved to burn for their pride.”

“Yes,” Dr. Roosevelt continued. “The irony is quite delicious, is it not?” 

“Of course, another reason was that we were trying to collect powerful souls that could be used to break the barrier,” Jack said.

“And that is where we, and you, come in. Frisk, we don’t want to use you for your abilities nor for your soul, although we did verify that it can be used to break the barrier. We never did.”

Dr. Roosevelt scoffed once more. “Speak for yourself,” she said. “More coffee!” she ordered.

Jack gives her a glare. “Okay, I never wanted to use your soul to break the barrier,” he said. Big comfort, Mr. Never-at-Home. 

“No, what I want you to do is to continue our work.” 

“…”

“What?” you say quietly. Dr. Roosevelt looks away. Jack matches our look with a resigned expression. “We’ve come to enjoy this too much,” Jack said. “All this bloodshed, manipulation, and slaughters. At some point, we’ve stopped caring about whether or not something was right. We only cared about what was necessary to be done.” 

“Jack believes,” Dr. Roosevelt says, her voice slightly quivering. “That he and I can no longer be trusted with the leadership of the world, and have determined that he must be ended within ten years.” 

“Steps are already being taken for the smooth transition of my powers, connections, and estates to you, Frisk,” Jack said. “Once you graduate from college, you will, in effect, be the ruler of both the society of mages and witch hunters on earth.” 

“Once the transfer of power is underway,” Dr. Roosevelt continues. “Jack will travel to the Mountain and to the Underground Kingdom of the Monsters. His soul should be the last the monsterkind needs to break the barrier. That shall be the conclusion of our work.” 

“But why?” you almost scream. “What do you think will happen when the barrier is broken?”

“We fully expect war to begin once more,” Jack says. 

“Humanity will burn without the protection of mages against the monster race, now with seven human souls,” Dr. Roosevelt said. 

“Your first action as the monarch of the mages will be to arrange an armistice between the mages and the monsters,” Jack stated. “We have cultivated enough loyalist mages of sufficient talents, as well as a cadre of hunters, to rival even a being with seven human souls.” 

“Monsters are, in the end, compassionate,” Dr. Roosevelt nodded. Sam comes by with another cup of coffee for Jack and Dr. Roosevelt. “A show of force and a clear demonstration of reason why there should be peace between mages and monsters should be sufficient to force them into a treaty. We will, of course, still have to divide the world between each other to prevent further incidents.” 

“But in the end, it shall be your choice,” Jack says. 

“Like we said, we can no longer be trusted with our own decisions,” Dr. Roosevelt says. “We have become… too desensitized. Too detached from the world we tried to save. A fresh pair of eyes and fresh mind is needed.” 

“We expect that you will make mistakes. There will be casualties from those mistakes. Do not fear these mistakes—even we have made them in the past, when we began and were full of hope as you are now.” 

“We have full confidence that you will succeed,” Dr. Roosevelt finished for Jack. “You are, after all, Jack’s protégé, and he has always held an eye for talent.” 

….

“I don’t want this, Jack,” you finally say. “This is too much. I can’t do this. I don’t want to hurt or kill anyone. I don’t want to be a politician or a ruler. I don’t want to have to be in the position to make mistakes.”

“What do you think of the kid’s response?” Jack asks Dr. Roosevelt, instead of answering your question. 

Dr. Roosevelt looks at us with begrudging eyes. “They pass,” she says at last. 

Jack leans back on his chair, satisfied. “It would have been problematic if you were eager to kill and hunt, even bad witches,” he says. “A fresh perspective is required, not anything similar to the old.” 

“We will, of course, attempt to convince you of the necessity of our many… less palatable actions,” Dr. Roosevelt said, chuckling slightly. “We have no reason to believe that you will accept, but… we can be persuasive.” 

But you don’t want to be convinced. 

You don’t want to let them convince you. 

“Couldn’t we just stop?” you ask. Both of them freeze. 

“What do you mean?” they ask in unison. 

“Couldn’t we just stop this? Not let another soul into the underground? Stop the witch hunts and attempt to coexist peacefully with the humans?”

Both of the adults are silent. Sam continues to clean the display cases in the background, unconcerned about the conversation.

“No,” Jack and Dr. Roosevelt say in unison. “No, that is an unacceptable outcome for us.” 

“We are sorry, we truly are,” Jack says with a thin smile. “But you must understand. We have been working towards this outcome for years.”

“We cannot simply turn our back on all of our work and progress,” Dr. Roosevelt finished for him.

They both drink their coffee in unison. 

“…Do I have a choice?” you ask. “Can I reject your offer to make me the monarch of the mages?” 

“No,” Dr. Roosevelt immediately snaps, fury clouding her expression. You wince from the sudden outburst. “That was the deal that Jack took to spare you your miserable life,” she snarls. “His life for yours and for the gradual toning down and eventual end of the witch hunts.” 

“Calm down, Jill,” Jack sighs. “No, Frisk,” Jack says sadly. “No, you do not have a choice in the matter.” 

…………………………………………………………………..

“YOU JERK!” you punch Jack as soon as you are alone together in the house. You manage to tip the hat off of him, but otherwise appear to have done nothing to him. He simply continues giving you that fake sad smile of his and says “Sorry.”

You hit him, again and again, but he never says or does anything other than give you a smile and say “sorry.” You eventually tire of that, and storm off to your room to cry.

I’m silent. 

You don’t want to have to follow Jack and Dr. Roosevelt’s footsteps if that means the death of your adoptive father and most of humanity with him. 

Even if your adoptive father was manipulating you into becoming something you aren’t, and even if much of humanity has been nothing but hateful towards your existence. 

I’m not sure if I agree with Dr. Roosevelt’s assessment of humanity given this fact. Mages are, in the end, humans too. And humans have made someone like you, so they cannot be innately weak and fearful.

An alternative plan? Hmm…

I dislike this alternative. 

But you have already made of your mind, have you not? 

You open the window to your bedroom and sneak out. There’s only one destination: the Mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC: Perhaps I just want ot get to the point with the damnable monsters already.
> 
> Please read my other work: A thin line, if you have enjoyed this :)


End file.
